Death Wish
by L.M.Lewis
Summary: Mark is clueless, the Judge is paranoid, and Frank is frank, as usual.


Disclaimer: The characters are not mine and I make no profit from them.

Rated: G

Author's note: This story follows behind _Lost Souls_ and _Resilience_ and is set roughly a couple of months after the second season episode _The Birthday Gift_. The ending might not make a whole lot of sense unless you've read _The Usual Suspects._

Got any more plot bunnies lying around, Wendy?

Thank you, Cheri, for finding no fewer than 32 errors, and making me fix the ending and for knowing the names of my other stories apparently better than I do and . . . and for so _very_ many things.

Death Wish

By L. M. Lewis

There was something unpleasantly familiar about the voice on the answering machine, a man with a raspy drawl, who was asking for McCormick. The judge pushed down his first gut reaction; people do not speak from beyond the grave. But years of listening to his own instincts made him copy the return number, a local one, on a notepad. He'd stuffed the page into his pocket and rewound the machine, all before McCormick entered the room.

"Message for you," Hardcastle pointed to the blinking light. "Didn't leave a name."

McCormick looked up from the auto-parts catalog that he was perusing as he sprawled down onto the nearest chair. Hardcastle hit the play button again. The second hearing did nothing to dispel his original impression and now he saw McCormick's face mirroring his own reaction.

"Recognize the voice?" Hardcastle asked the younger man, when the message had cycled through to the end again.

McCormick managed a nonchalant shrug that was at odds with his expression.

"Well," the judge said dryly, "if I didn't know better, _I'd_ say it sounded a lot like the late Weed Randall."

"Maybe," McCormick replied, "a little."

There was something oddly constrained about McCormick's response, as though he'd had some time to think about it, and an inkling of a suspicion began to form in the judge's mind.

"This isn't the first message this guy's left, is it?" Hardcastle was watching more closely now; sometimes the truth was in the face, not the words.

But all he got was a simple shake of the head, and the kid turning casually to the next page in the catalog.

"McCormick?" The judge tried to keep the natural tendency toward menace out of his voice, but it wasn't easy. "How_ many_ times has this guy called?"

"A couple," McCormick closed the catalog and looked up at the judge. "Three. I talked to him last week. He's Weed's brother. He said he'd call to let me know when he got into town."

The judge looked down at the man in the chair, trying to figure out all the meanings behind the words. He finally settled for the most basic question, "He's in town?"

"Yeah. He didn't find out about the . . . death until a few weeks ago. You know there was no funeral. It was a pauper's grave."

No, he hadn't known, but somehow it didn't surprise him that McCormick did. "Why didn't the family get notified?" he asked gruffly.

"Not sure, some sort of snafu, fell through the cracks. Weed'd been in prison a long time. His brother didn't even know he was up to be released."

"So why'd he call you?"

McCormick looked a little surprised by the question. There was a moment's hesitation and then he said, "Well, I guess it was because I was _there_, Judge. He wanted to ask me some . . . questions." The kid had stopped making eye contact about half-way through this statement, though he kept his tone matter-of-fact enough to pass inspection.

Hardcastle frowned. "What did he want to know? What did he say?"

"Just . . . stuff." McCormick was fanning the edge of the catalog with his thumb, looking out the window past the desk, still not making eye contact.

The judge had to resist the urge to walk to the other side of the desk and sit down directly in line with that gaze. It was not like he could force the kid on this issue; Lord knows he _had_ tried over the past couple of months since Randall's death. Nothing short of five shots of tequila and a beer chaser would be likely to shake the kid loose on this subject.

"Okay," Hardcastle rubbed the side of his nose. "So what's this brother's name, anyway?

"Jake. He's the younger brother by a couple years. Weed's name was William."

The judge found this little recital of facts _peculiar_. "You've been talking to him a bit, eh?"

"Yeah," Mark said reluctantly, "a little. We have some stuff in common." McCormick had dragged his gaze back from the window and was now studying the fingernails of his right hand with unwarranted interest. "He's done some time, minor beefs, not like Weed."

Hardcastle found this news disturbing, though not surprising. It would have been too much to hope that Weed was the only bad apple in the Randall family barrel.

It did surprise him when McCormick picked up the thread of the conversation and went on, "They started calling him Weed when he was 13. Jake said he grew six inches in one year. That's why the nickname."

Hardcastle could think of a couple other good reasons for it, but he kept his mouth shut. These were the most words in a row he'd heard on the subject of Weed Randall in almost a month. "So," he said in a low, cautious voice, "what's the brother doing in town?"

McCormick finally looked up, a faint smile played across his face, not the usual goofy grin, but a pale imitation. "Judge, this isn't one of those John Wayne movies. He's not coming into town to get . . . even." The smile was entirely gone now. "He's here for the body. He's taking it home to the family plot, back in Kentucky. They had a farm there."

"Yeah, well, it just seems a little strange that he'd want to talk to you, that's all."

"Maybe," McCormick frowned, looking like the thought hadn't occurred to him before, then dismissing it with another shrug. "Jake seems . . ._okay._"

"Dunno," the judge said, shaking his head. "He sounds too much like Weed. I don't think I could stand to be in the same room with him."

McCormick smiled again, "Well, _that's_ understandable, and you don't have to be."

There was something in this last remark that caught Hardcastle's ear and he blurted out, "You don't mean _you're_ getting together with him?"

The kid looked taken aback by the inflection. He eased back in his chair a little and replied, "Yeah, I am. He doesn't know anybody else in town and--"

"Hell, he doesn't know _you_, McCormick, and I can't think of any _safe_ reason why he would want to get together with--"

"The man who shot his brother?" Mark clipped him off in mid-tirade with a look that said the conversation was just about over. "Okay, well, maybe he'll want to have it out with pistols on Main Street at noon, who knows? I never said _I_ was a good judge of character."

The judge beat down the urge to argue further; it would only drive the wedge in deeper and right now he preferred information. "So where _are_ you meeting him?"

"Don't know yet," McCormick replied sullenly, "I gotta call that number and find out where he's staying." Then he lightened his tone a little in reassurance, "Don't worry, Judge; it'll be a nice public place."

"Yeah, Main Street, high noon," the judge grumbled.

Hardcastle had watched the kid slouch out of the room, voluntarily heading out to deal with the lawn. That, in and of itself, was an odd sign. He hung around in the den a few minutes longer, resisting the urge to erase the message. Then he made a phone call of his own, grabbed his jacket and keys, and headed out the door.

00000

Frank had listened patiently. He probably felt a certain obligation; after all, the judge was buying this impromptu lunch. But even after Hardcastle had laid the whole thing out for the man, there didn't seem to be much sense of alarm on Frank's part. Concern, a little, maybe.

"You mean it doesn't seem weird to you? This brother of Randall's looking up McCormick? Them getting together?" the judge asked incredulously.

"Yeah," Frank shrugged. "Maybe a little. But, hey, it was about as righteous as a shoot can get. Maybe the people who knew Weed better than we did, know that better, too. It's possible."

"How many understanding families of dead criminals have you run into over the years, Frank?"

"Not that many, I'll grant you, but on the other hand, I'm not sure I've ever met a shooter, righteous or not, with Mark's level of . . . empathy. I mean, there've been a couple of times when I just wanted to give him a whack in the head and say 'the guy was a stone-cold killer, you saved the taxpayers some money'."

"Yeah," Hardcastle rubbed the ridge of his nose and agreed wearily. "But I don't think your damned departmental psychologists would agree with that, huh?"

"You as Mark's stand-in shrink," Frank shook his head and smiled, "now there's a scary thought."

"Not his _shrink_, just somebody to talk to."

"So, has he done much of that, Milt?"

There was a moment of silence. Then Hardcastle said, "So far we've just gotten to the point of talking _about_ talking about it . . . but he seemed pretty okay."

"As long as you're not trying to get him to talk about it, eh?" Frank finished for him. Hardcastle nodded. "And then this Jake Randall comes along and makes a couple phone calls and, wham, they're making plans to get together to talk. No wonder you're pissed, Milt."

Hardcastle looked thoughtful. "You think that's it, Frank?"

"Maybe, a little." Frank shrugged again. "Who wouldn't be?"

"So you think I'm over-reacting, too, huh?"

"Well, you've always had good cop instincts, Milt. You want me to run a check on Jacob Randall for you?"

"Yeah, Frank, I'd appreciate it."

00000

By the time he got home the lawn was done. The Coyote was where it had been when he'd left. McCormick was nowhere in sight. _Probably over in the gatehouse._ He could haul some files out, make up some sort of excuse to drag him back out here, but he didn't think that would help much.

So he bided his time going over the mail in the den. Then, when he'd exhausted all the possibilities there, he picked up a book he'd been meaning to read. Pages got turned for a while. He thought about calling down to the station a couple of times, but decided if Frank had found out anything interesting about Weed's brother, he would have already called.

Dinner-time came and went with no sign of the kid. Hardcastle himself wasn't too hungry after his late lunch.

He heard the front door open, no greeting, just steps in the hall and then McCormick in the doorway, hesitating as though it might not be safe to come in. He had on a clean shirt and a sport coat, no tie. There was something in his hand, a piece of paper.

"Going out?" the judge asked, keeping his tone neutral.

"Um, yeah," he walked over to the desk but did not sit down. "This is where we're meeting." He held out the piece of paper. "And that other address is where Jake is staying while he's in town."

Hardcastle took the paper from him and looked at the information. The bar was not too far away. Not fancy, but not seedy either. Hardcastle didn't ask whose idea the location had been. The motel was similarly average. Hardcastle was relieved to see it wasn't the Sunspot; there would have been a limit to how much weird he could have handled.

He looked up at the kid, who was still standing there, fidgeting a little, like somebody who had something to say but didn't want to go first.

The judge threw him a rescue line. "What time do you think you'll be back?"

"Probably not too late," he replied gratefully. "I can call you if it's gonna be much past ten, ten-thirty. How's that?"

"That'd be fine." The judge nodded.

"And you won't have to share the popcorn. What's on tonight?"

"Um . . ." It occurred to Hardcastle that the kid was in no hurry to leave. He scratched the side of his nose. "I think it's 'In Harm's Way.'"

There was a fractional pause and then McCormick was laughing. "Oh, come on, you just made that up, didn't you?" The laughter had faded to a chuckle but the grin remained.

"No, _really,_" Hardcastle insisted indignantly, pushing down his own smile. "Look it up in the TV guide."

"Well," the kid shook his head, "as long as it isn't 'High Noon'." Then he looked over his shoulder in the direction of the dining room. "Sorry about dinner."

"S'okay, I had a late lunch."

"With Frank, I'll bet," McCormick smiled again. "So, did Jake spend his formative years in a hospital for the criminally insane?"

Hardcastle thought he could hear something behind the question. _He's not looking forward to this meeting tonight, I'll bet. He's looking for a little reassurance._

"No news so far," the judge smiled.

McCormick shrugged. "See, what'd I tell you? I'll be back by ten-thirty, okay?"

"Yeah." He watched him leave.

00000

Ten-thirty came and went with no call and no sign of the Coyote. _They got to talking. He lost track of the time._ Either that or he was lying in an alley somewhere with a knife in his back. _Nonsense, a guy'd have to be crazy to make an appointment with someone and then do him in . . . _

_Weed was crazy._

He took out the piece of paper and looked at the address again. Not that he needed to, he'd already looked at it three or four times. _It's fifteen minutes away, tops. You could take a quick run over there._ Hardcastle knew what he'd probably find, two young ex-cons sitting around, comparing notes on life on the inside, and he'd walk in, right on cue for one of McCormick's patented smart-mouthed introductions, '. . . _and this is the crazy ex-judge I was telling you about, the one who checks up on me if I'm not in by 10:30.'_

He stood up, took three steps toward the desk and the phone, then three steps back to the chair, well aware that if he took another three steps in the direction of the phone, it would constitute pacing. He glanced at his watch, 10:50. He made up his mind. _Well, I am the crazy ex-judge. It's your own fault, kiddo; you said 10:30._

But this thought was interrupted by the deep and distinctive sound of the Coyote's engine, as the car's headlights cut across the opposite wall and then blinked out. Hardcastle scowled and dropped back down in his chair, opening the book he'd been ignoring for the past half-hour, and reaching for a handful of popcorn.

More minutes passed without any sound at the front door. Hardcastle's scowl became a puzzled expression. He got up and looked out, standing a little back from the window. The Coyote was unoccupied, but the gatehouse lights were still off.

He walked back through the house to the patio door, looking out into the yard. He caught some movement in the shadows, McCormick standing by the beach wall. It was a clear but moonless night. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness he saw the kid was staring up into the sky and swaying a little.

The judge's scowl was back. _Dammit, three sheets to the wind and DUI_. He opened the patio door and went out to confront him. "McCormick?" The shout got the kid's attention. He turned slowly as the judge approached. He had a bemused smile on his face but his eyes were dark.

"Hi, Judge."

"Gimme your keys, hotshot." Hardcastle held out his hand. McCormick reached into his jacket pockets and looked confused for a moment. "Um, must've left 'em somewhere," he mumbled apologetically.

"In the Coyote, that's where." Hardcastle looked him up and down. There weren't any other obvious signs of wear and tear, no bar brawls at least, just the goofy smile of a man who's going to be sorry in the morning but doesn't care yet. _No point in lecturing him now. _

Hardcastle kept his voice stern. "Come on, inside--before I have to carry you."

McCormick nodded and tried to aim himself in the direction he'd been pointed. He cast one last look over his shoulder at the nearly invisible ocean and the starry sky. He leaned in toward Hardcastle and said very solemnly, "It is _so_ beautiful out here."

The judge shook his head once. "Wait'll the sun comes up." Then he straightened the kid up by his arm and steered him toward the patio. It occurred to him that he'd never seen McCormick with more than a couple of beers on board. He would not have pegged him for a docile drunk. Sardonic maybe, or obnoxiously cheerful, but not the way he was now.

He'd already decided that the gatehouse was too ambitious a trip. And he had no intention of risking the flight of stairs in the main house with McCormick in tow. It would have to be the sofa and if the kid woke up with a crick in his neck it would be his own damn fault.

00000

Ten a.m. had brought no change in the lump on the sofa. He'd muttered a few times but shown no signs of returning to life, or what was going to pass for it for the next few hours. Hardcastle had a vague sense of concern that the kid might sleep through the worst of it and then try to deny what had happened altogether. He'd been working on the lecture on and off all night and he really thought it would be most effective if delivered loudly first thing in the morning.

He'd found the keys, out in the Coyote, dropped on the front seat. He'd taken both that key and the one for the truck, off the key ring, and deposited the rest in the middle of his desk. To his surprise, the Coyote was as unscathed as its owner, just plain dumb luck as far as he could tell.

The phone rang and, tempted as he was, he went into the kitchen to pick it up. He barked a hello and heard Frank's voice.

"Milt, when did you say Mark's getting together with Randall's brother?"

Hardcastle ran his fingers through his hair. "I didn't, but it was last night, Frank. You're a day late and a dollar short."

"Well, the stuff from Kentucky just came off the printer a few minutes ago. It's not all that exciting. I just thought you'd wanna know."

"Yeah, I still do. What'd'ya have, Frank?"

"Mark said all this guy had was some 'minor beefs', huh? Well, I suppose it's all relative when your brother guns down a superior court judge sitting at the bench," Frank said dryly. Hardcastle smiled to himself; never had a man ever been more appropriately named 'Frank'.

"He's got a quite a sheet, in and out since he was a kid. But the part that I thought was kinda interesting is maybe something you already know."

"What?"

"Well, looks like Weed got his start with a manslaughter rap, back when he was fifteen. Jake was eleven then."

"I didn't know about that one, must've been sealed."

"Yeah, I found it in Jacob's files. He got put into the system then. Seems Weed did in their father. Jake witnessed it."

Hardcastle let out a low whistle. Then he said, "Maybe that explains it, then, why he's handling Weed's death like it's no big deal."

"Maybe," Frank said, "or maybe not. It was Jake's testimony that got Weed's charges reduced to manslaughter, even though he apparently bludgeoned Randall Senior to death while the man was asleep. Seems Jake testified to an ongoing pattern of physical abuse from the father. Said his brother only did it to save him."

"That's . . . _interesting._"

"I thought you might say that. If I get any more I'll let you know. How's Mark, anyway?"

"Sleeping it off."

Frank laughed. "Hah, all that for nothing. See ya, Milt."

"Thanks, Frank."

The Judge hung up the phone and looked over his shoulder in the direction of the den. He wondered how much of this had been the topic of conversation in the bar last night. It was entirely possible that McCormick would have had to knock back a story like that with a couple extra shots of tequila. But all-in-all, he couldn't say it gave him any great insight into Jacob Randall's attitude towards his brother's death, or his odd interest in the man who'd shot him.

00000

Hardcastle was sitting at the patio table, finishing the remains of his lunch, when he saw McCormick just inside the doorway, shading his eyes against the sun.

"What time is it?" The younger man muttered, even though he must've walked past three clocks on his way from the sofa.

Hardcastle glanced down at his watch. "High noon," he announced.

"Oh," McCormick replied disinterestedly, than backed up a few more steps into the kitchen and wandered over to the sink. Hardcastle followed him inside.

The kid was filling a glass of water.

"How's the head?" Hardcastle asked without much sympathy.

"Head's okay," McCormick replied slowly. "It's just my mouth . . .feels as dry as . . . as some overworked analogy, something involving a desert, camels maybe."

Hardcastle frowned. McCormick seemed to have overshot the hangover. That was going to make the next part more difficult. "Listen, kid, I never thought I'd have to read you the riot act on this, but it ain't gonna happen twice, ya hear?"

McCormick was squinting at him now. The look was fairly blank. "What'd I do?" He now had a little worry in his tone.

"How much _did_ you drink last night?"

McCormick' mouth opened, but nothing came out. He closed it just as abruptly and scanned the room around him as if the answer might be there somewhere. Then, after a pause he asked, quietly, "What time is it?"

"Five minutes _past _high noon," the judge shouted gruffly, "and if you _ever_ get behind the wheel of a car again in that condition, I'll _personally_ deliver you to the parole board."

McCormick was frowning in confusion. "Did I hit anything? Nobody got hurt?"

"I think you had St. Jude pulling for you last night, kiddo, because there isn't any other explanation that I can see."

"How much _did_ I have to drink?"

"I rest my case." Hardcastle crossed his arms and leaned against the counter.

Mark put his glass down carefully and looked like he was trying to regroup. "Judge, you know, I watched my uncle drink himself unconscious almost every night for three years. I said I'd _never_ do that. Be like him, I mean . . . are you _sure_--?"

"Yeah, I saw it."

"How much?" McCormick was looking more distressed by the second.

"I saw the _results_; I wasn't there when you were trying to poison yourself."

"I was by _myself_?"

A little quiver of doubt shot through the edge of the judge's certainty. He frowned. He pointed McCormick at a kitchen chair and watched him fumble for it, taking the seat gratefully.

"No headache? None?"

The kid shook his head, as if to prove it. "Everything's a little blurry though."

"And yesterday, what do you remember?"

McCormick put his head in his hands, thinking, then lifted it. "I mowed the lawn, a lot."

"That was in the afternoon, what about later?"

McCormick looked perplexed for a moment. "Oh, I called . . . Jake." The judge nodded encouragingly.

"And?"

"I came in here, no, in the den. I was talking to you. Popcorn. Something about a movie and . . ." he trailed off. There was a worried moment of silence and then he asked, "How much am I missing?"

"About three and a half hours."

"Feels like longer."

"Well, I can account for the rest. It's about thirteen more hours."

"What time is it?"

Hardcastle was already dialing Charlie Friedman.

00000

"Yup, scopolamine. I'd say the symptoms support it." Charlie said as he packed his penlight and reflex hammer back into his bag. "They call that transient global amnesia; that's what makes it such a handy drug for criminals. Very big in South America, I've heard. Dope up the victim. They'll do pretty much anything they're told, and afterwards they don't even remember being drugged. Dilated pupils, that's where the blurry vision comes from. Dry mouth. Makes people uncoordinated as hell, though. You sure he drove that car home?"

Hardcastle nodded. McCormick was frowning, still trying to chip away at the great amorphous blob that was his recent memory.

"Any way to test for it?" Hardcastle asked.

"Not sure. I'm not a toxicologist, Milt. Most of my business is ulcers and migraines. You guys are the two most exciting patients I have. Let me take a blood specimen and call the reference lab." He already had out the tourniquet and the equipment. McCormick only stopped frowning long enough to wince.

"And he can stay here? He doesn't have to go to the hospital?"

"The worst is over, I'd say. Mark, make sure you let me know if you have any trouble passing urine."

And, on that cheery note, the doctor departed.

00000

By mid-afternoon the kid had stopped drinking water by the gallon, and if he'd had any trouble in the other department, he wasn't telling. Hardcastle went out to the patio and called the number he'd stuffed in his pocket the day before. It was the switch-board at the motel. He asked for Jake Randall's room--not checked out, but no answer to the rings.

He'd called Frank. They'd talked. Yeah, _if_ it could be proven, it would constitute battery, but knowing and proving were a long way apart in this case.

"I think he wanted him dead, Frank. Maybe he was supposed to crash the car. Charlie says he shouldn't have been able to drive it. Doesn't know how he did. I think when he finds out it didn't work, he may be back." Hardcastle preferred to keep his concerns out on the patio. The kid had fallen asleep on the sofa again.

"He can't think he'll have another chance now; you're on to him."

"I was on to him the _first_ time; I just didn't listen to myself."

"Yeah, well, nobody else listened, either. Hell, it's like some kind of Alfred Hitchcock movie."

"Frank, I'm going to go check out that bar later, when the evening shift comes on. McCormick should be in a little better shape by then. Maybe it'll shake something loose for him, too."

"The bar, okay," then Frank added firmly, "but any leads, _anything_ to do with Randall directly, you call me. You don't go in alone, and you don't use Mark as back up."

00000

Six forty-five found them parked in front of the Amber Lantern, the judge behind the wheel and Mark looking out the passenger side window.

"Yeah, I remember it. I've been here before. I don't remember coming here yesterday." He was trying to keep the frustration out of his voice. "I don't know what purpose this is gonna serve, Judge. I really don't want to hear from a bunch of people I don't know that I spent yesterday evening in here with a lampshade on my head."

Hardcastle shook his head. "I don't think Jake wanted you to make a spectacle of yourself. It was probably a little more lethal than that. Everybody seems to agree that you're lucky you're not lying in a ravine somewhere between here and the estate." The judge led the way into the darkened taproom and walked over to the bar.

The barkeep nodded a greeting to the judge, but seemed to look a moment longer at McCormick.

Hardcastle hitched his thumb over his shoulder at the kid and said to the bartender, "My friend was in here last night, with another guy."

"Yeah, looked familiar. The two guys who rented the table over in the corner. Lose something?"

"Nah, just wondering about something that happened. Do you know who was serving them?"

"Last night? Table 12, that'd be Sherry."

"She around?" Hardcastle slipped a twenty onto the counter. "A couple glasses of water," he said. Mark reached for his as soon as it was set down.

The barkeep had signaled somebody towards the back, a middle-height brunette, in mostly black. Hardcastle looked over at Mark. He shrugged non-committally . Sherry sauntered over and the barkeep found something else to do.

"Hi, cutie." She flashed a smile a McCormick. "Thanks for the tip."

"I don't suppose it was 'buy low and sell high'?" the judge said.

Sherry spared him a brief look and then asked Mark, "What can I get you?"

McCormick held up his glass to show he was good. The judge leaned forward a little and lowered his voice to give an impression of confidentiality where none was actually needed.

"What we're looking for is a little information".

The young woman's eyebrows rose, but she leaned into the conversation almost against her will. "Like what?" she asked, in a huskier voice that was meant to be a whisper.

"Last night, this guy and his friend, how much did they drink?"

Sherry wrinkled up her forehead, appearing vastly disappointed by the banality of the question. Her voice rose back up to its normal register. "Him, maybe three beers. The other guy, one tequila, one beer, then he switched to Pepsi with a twist of lime. But they tipped pretty damn good." She smiled again at McCormick

"Did either of them do anything unusual?"

McCormick shot him an irritated look, but Sherry was already shaking her head. "Unless you mean about him," she pointed at McCormick, "not being able to handle his liquor. You sticking to the seltzer today, honey?" McCormick nodded glumly. "Yeah, well, that's a good thing, if three beers knock you on your ass like that. It's a good thing you had a friend along."

Hardcastle ignored the editorial and asked, "They left together?"

"Yup, one leaning, one getting leaned on. It was kinda cute."

"I'll bet," the judge grinned in encouragement. "Now, just one last thing. I don't suppose you looked out the window and noticed the car he was driving?"

"That cute little red thing? Couldn't miss that one. Anyway, his friend left his coat in the booth, so I ran it out to him" She turned to McCormick again, "_That's_ when you gave me the big tip, remember?" She took in the cool, blank stare that Mark was offering and said, in a smaller voice, "Well . . . I guess not."

"They were still together--out there?"

"Yeah," she shrugged, "they left in the same car. His friend was driving."

McCormick blinked once. Hardcastle not at all. _Sometimes the answer is right in front of you all along._ He thanked the young woman without spending much energy on the words, then turned the now-frozen McCormick toward the door and gave him a little push.

They were just outside of the door before the kid turned to him, and asked explosively, "What the hell happened?"

Hardcastle shook his head once and said, "I'm not sure, exactly, but I've got an idea. Get in." He pointed at the truck.

They drove back along the inevitable route that must have been taken the night before, with McCormick squinting against the nearly setting sun. Hardcastle was driving with intent, taking the curves of the PCH a little faster than he ordinarily would. McCormick braced himself over on the far side of the seat, looking anywhere but at the judge.

They turned in at the familiar driveway a little before seven-thirty. Hardcastle climbed out without waiting for the younger man. He stood there for a moment, as if he was considering something. Finally he pointed over to where the Coyote was still parked and asked. "You still don't remember any of this, arriving back here?"

"No," McCormick muttered, "and I'm beginning to think I don't want to, either."

"Yeah," the judge replied. "I don't suppose you'd consider doing what I asked for once." Then, without waiting for an answer, "No, why set a precedent?" He started to walk back around the side of the house. McCormick followed him wordlessly, still shielding his eyes against the last rays of the sun. Hardcastle didn't stop at the patio, but continued on across the yard to the place where he had found McCormick the night before.

There was a low, flag-stone wall, designed to remind the familiar of the drop-off just ahead. He stepped over it easily and looked down, confirming what he'd suspected for the last half-hour. Just visible in the deep shadows among the rocks, was the body of Weed Randall's younger brother.

He was aware of McCormick, standing right behind him, looking over his shoulder into the darkening abyss. "Is it--?" And then his breath caught. "Did I--?"

"I don't think _this_ was the way he meant it to turn out. I suspect that was supposed to be you down there." The judge let out a breath, "Nancy used to worry that this wall was too low, in the dark. If you didn't know it was here, you could trip over it. How many times have _you_ been out here at night, kiddo?"

"Many," Mark answered automatically, not taking his eyes off the sight below; although the details were being rapidly swallowed up in the dusk.

00000

He made McCormick come inside, all the way into the den at the front of the house. They'd only stayed out there long enough to show the first arriving officers where the body was. There were still the glinting reflections of the Mars lights, through the front window, as vehicles arrived and departed.

Harper joined them after a while, once he'd seen enough to get the general drift. Hardcastle gave his interpretation of the events one last time. "I think he was trying to make it look like a suicide, not his own though." McCormick was sitting in one of the chairs; he didn't even look up at this. He'd heard the first, more impassioned recital, while they'd waited for the 911 responders.

"Kind of a risk, don't you think, coming back to the house with him?" Frank nodded in Mark's direction.

"Not really. It was late. But if anybody had showed up when he first arrived, then he was ready to be the Good Samaritan, just helping a friend home, increasing the strength of his story for the next try. I'm not sure he even knew about the cliff above the beach, maybe this was supposed to be a drowning."

"Mark, any chance you might--?"

"None, not a thing." McCormick curled himself deeper into the chair. "It's just so weird, you know, that I had Weed's death running like a tape loop in my head for the longest time. I could _not_ shut that damn thing down. And now this, there's . . . _nothing_."

Frank nodded his understanding as he flipped his notebook closed. "Then that's it for now. They'll probably be out there for a while longer. I'll let you guys know if we need anything more from you."

Hardcastle showed him out and returned to the den. Mark hadn't moved. "What time is it?" the kid asked quietly.

"Now? Almost midnight."

There was a long silence.

"Last night," Mark lifted his eyes and looked directly at the judge, questioningly, "what was I doing out there when you found me?"

Hardcastle gave this a moment's thought. _Not this one, kiddo. This one is not yours to worry about._

"You were just standing there, maybe ten yards this side of the wall." Hardcastle replied with the certainty of a trained police observer. "You were looking up at the stars," he smiled affectionately, "like always."


End file.
